


At Last, Free at Last

by Bhelryss



Series: Dáin2k15 [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, au: modern, dain2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bhelryss/pseuds/Bhelryss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dáin Durinson is eighteen years old, newly graduated and has plans. So many plans. He's going to do things. Important things. Like dragging older, 2srs cousins Thorin and probably Dwalin into trouble. Like going to Vegas.</p>
<p>But first he has to get Thorin out of his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Last, Free at Last

“Ma” He complains, but lets her twist his hair up into a bun anyway. He’s eighteen and well and truly graduated, a real man, but it makes his aging mother happy to do his hair and he’s lazy enough (and thoughtful enough, but don’t tell Thorin) to let her do it when she asks. She ties his hair ornament around the mess of hair, something she’s insisted on doing since he was three years old and old enough not to tear it out of his hair, and shoos him off with a knowing stare. It’s the third day of summer, and he’s planned a whole month’s worth of grand and exciting adventures.

Starting with the greatest adventure of all: getting his favorite idiot to actually use the vacation time he penned down three months ago.

“Thorin, smelt-for-brains, you in?” He bellowed, not bothering to knock on the ajar door. Waltzing into Thorin and Frerin’s shared apartment was never a good idea, but rarely a bad one. Case in point, Frerin shot him a jaunty wave and offered him some oatmeal cookies (“These aren’t up to snuff, you can have as many as you’d like.”)

If he indulged himself in more than a couple, well...Frerin’s bakery was always sold out of this particular delicacy when he visited. Can anyone really blame him for taking advantage of a good thing?

And there was the normal deterrent, sir fussy-britches himself. The most dour stormcloud, Fusspot McThorin, hair mussed and bleary eyed. “Not up before noon, eh cuz?” Dáin teased, knowing his older cousin had just gotten off a night shift. “Lazybones.”

“You smell like pig.” Thorin complained, reaching for one of Frerin’s cookies only to get his hand slapped away. Frowning, he grabbed one anyway, taking the hits stoically. (“Thorin!” Frerin hissed unhappily, “This plate was supposed to be for Dís’ party, take from other plate, you barbarian!”) “Don’t you bathe like a regular person?”

Dáin sniffed haughtily. “Beauty and her newest litter are going to win big at the state fair this year.” With all the love he put into them, they were the biggest pigs the judges had ever seen. He’d broken state records, after all, unlike a certain Durinson he could name. “Her biggest babe is a beautiful girl. I’m calling her Blossom. She’s might even top that record breaking swine down in Texas. If i’m lucky, she’ll even break 800 pounds.”

A pig that big? He could probably ride it into battle! Though if he were to ever have a battle-pig, he’d probably want some piggy armor...it wouldn’t do to have his best girl get hit by a bullet, or a sword, or whatever enemy weaponry was used in the situation. “Do you think I could ride her into a battle? I know a kid who goes LARP-ing, is that something you think would be allowed?”

Frerin throws up his hands, right before the oven starts beeping. “As soon as these are boxed up properly, I’m leaving. You guys are going to get killed, and I won’t listen to the planning stages.” Dáin sticks his tongue out, and Thorin grunts expressively. The blond raises a knowing eyebrow and merely goes about his cooking business.

True to his word, Frerin expertly boxes up the last of the perfect cookies and then places the not-so-perfect ones in a tupperware. Pinning the two of them with a knowing look, Frerin snorts. “I’ll be at Ma’s if you need me. You know, to bail the two slash three of you out of jail later. Don’t get Dwalin arrested, Balin will lecture me for hours.”

Once he was out of earshot, Dáin grinned at Thorin. “You got Dwalin to agree to come?” Oh man! They were gonna have so much fun!! Possibly get themselves arrested, but Dwalin was home from Afghanistan for a few weeks on leave. Who would arrest him? They’d get off scot-free, Dwalin would slide him a beer afterwards, they’d drive all the way out to Vegas and play the tables until they won big or ran out of money. His mother would frown about him losing all his money, if that was how it went, but his dad would laugh and make noises about how glad he was that Gloin was going to be the one taking over the store’s finances.

“Your mother will kill you if that happens.” Thorin said easily, sipping from a steaming cup of coffee. “And Dwalin isn’t going to slip you anything, you underage poser. Even with that beard of yours, no one’s going to believe you’re over twenty.” A snort. “You can however, watch in awe as I drink Dwalin under the table.”

Dáin moaned and groaned, completely embarrassed about having said his thoughts aloud, but inevitably shrugged and agreed. “I’ll put twenty bucks on Dwalin outdrinking you until you’re both passed out in the backseat.” And then he’d use his always handy sharpie to draw embarrassing things on their faces. And elbows. And photograph the evidence and text it to Dís.

She appreciated art like that.

“But yeah, when are we picking that lug up?” Despite being closer in age to Dwalin than Thorin, he was truly closer to the older. And that meant he didn’t...really know that much about Dwalin. His other cousin kept his thoughts and emotions close to his chest. And Dáin was pretty sure that Dwalin thought he was flippant and loud.

Which, while true, didn’t mean he was empty-headed.

“He’s getting another tattoo.” Thorin said simply, pouring himself another cup. “Knuckles this time, I think. He won’t have any skin left to ink if he keeps up this pace.” He knocks back the coffee like it isn’t scalding, and pours another. Dáin winces, just imagining how much that might hurt.

And yet…he couldn’t resist a challenge.

“Hey, can I have a cup?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Dáin does not survive his attempt to shot a steaming cup of joe. He spends the remainder of the month unable to taste Frerin's excellent cooking, or anything else for that matter. 
> 
> A crying shame.


End file.
